2007: Year in Review (and a glance ahead)

The biggest headlines are from my personal life: I got engaged, and I moved from Washington, D.C. to Chicago. But 2007 was decent for me as a playwright as well.

My play "A Skewed Nude" was presented at The Great Plains Theatre Conference, which I attended. It was my first playwriting conference. "Nude" also won the award for best unpublished script at the Maryland Community Theatre Festival in January. (The play previous won at the 2004 Pittsburgh New Works Festival.) The publicity from the Maryland conference resulted in a subsequent performance by the Newtowne Players in Leonardstown, Md. That production is significant in that it was the first time I was unable to attend a production of one of my plays. I also missed a production of a few of my monologues that were performed as a part of "Practice Monologamy" at Carlow College in Pittsburgh in March.

A few new pieces premiered this year. My full-length "Necromony, USA" premiered at Duquesne University (Pittsburgh) in February. My one-act "Claire's Departure" premiered at the Pittsburgh New Works Festival in September. "Typist," another full-length, had a reading at Pittsburgh Playwright's Theatre in March and was a semi-finalist in several competitions (always a bridesmaid never a full production?).

Note that most of my playwriting successes were early in the year before I got distracted by adjusting to a new city and planning a wedding.

Speaking of weddings, we attended four this year: two in Pittsburgh, one in D.C., and one in Connecticut.

Moving to Chicago gave me the opportunity to reconnect with friends with whom I grown apart or completely lost touch. Of course, these are likely trade offs for people in D.C. I'm already losing track of, but it's still nice to get back together with good people from my past. And Chicago, as expected, has brought wonderful new people into my life as well. I think I'm going to like it here.

So what excitement lies ahead in 2008? Much of that remains to be seen. Most notably I'm getting married. As for theatre, this is the first year since I started seriously writing in 2003 that I have not had at least one production lined up before the year began. That's to be suspected since I didn't do a lot of writing or submitting in the latter part of 2007. Still, it's a bit scary. I'll have a few monologues in a benefit planned for May, which I am excited about, but it still doesn't feel as significant as full play or even a one-act. Hopefully, though I can get a few things going in the next 12 months. Only time will tell.

Regardless, I am excited for the prospects and opportunities of this new year.

Ex does not have to mean ex-friend

Some people think it's strange, but I'm close friends with a number of my ex-boyfriends. Moreso, two of my closest girlfriends are the ex-wife of one of my ex-boyfriends and the future wife of another ex-boyfriend. (Did you follow that?) A friend of the latter couple, when finding out that I, the ex-girlfriend, was friends with the current fiance told my ex that he couldn't have that. Granted the friend was quite drunk, but sober folks have expressed similar amazement at these situations. Didn't they watch "Friends?" Apparently, hanging out with exes and their currents is supposed to be the stuff of sitcoms and soap operas. Decent people aren't supposed to do that in real life.

I guess the implied acceptable act is to cut off all ties from anyone with whom you were once seriously involved and anyone with whom that person may currently be involved. That, however, seems like quite a waste of good people.

If I dated someone (particularly if I dated them for a long enough period of time that the relationship can't be blamed on a superficial infatuation), we must have enjoyed each other's company. We must have had things in common. Why do we have to give all that up just because we aren't each other's soulmates.

Now, that's not to say that the day after a break-up is a good day to go out for coffee. I've tried to force healing too soon. It is difficult and usually becomes unpleasant. But as they say, "time heals all wounds." Most of them anyway. With due time, we can be grown ups and admit that we still like each other even if we no longer like-like each other. It helps, too, if both have moved on to other relationships. That way there is less chance that someone is wondering "what if?" or that someone is wondering if the other person is wondering "what if?"

Insular situations like college or theatre or college theatre often result in the recycling of who dates whom. Much like on sitcoms. Those of us who are in those sorts of situations understand, and this stuff doesn't feel like a big deal. It happened. It's over. We've moved on. Others find this strange. I remember being at the bar after a show with a guy I was dating who was not a theatre person. Picking up on conversational clues he asked me how many of the guys there I had dated. There were about 20 people gathered in the back room of the bar. I believe my answer was 7. Certainly some of those were 1 or 2 dates and others were relationships of a year or more, but the answer was 7.

I sometimes wish that I didn't have the romantic history with some of these guys, just to make our friendship less of an oddity. I do not ever regret being friends with them. I do, however, wonder sometimes about those with whom I have lost touch. Not pining for them. Just wondering how they are doing. They are good guys.

My fiance admits that he is sometimes a bit weirded out when meeting my exes, but he is friends with the one he has gotten to know best (solely based on proximity). Okay, I admit it sometimes weirds me out. It's weird to have that much history with people. But I wouldn't give it up. True friends are worth any awkwardness.

We're all going to die, but some will die sooner than others.

My parents' dog is going to die. Of course I've known this was an eventuality, but with this visit the actuality is much more real. Po is 13 years old. She is gray and slow and has trouble breathing. I hope she holds out for as long as she can, but my parents' dog is going to die.

We never had a dog growing up. My parents' felt that with their jobs they couldn't properly care for one. My parents eventually got Po after I was grown and out of the house. As a result, I usually only got to see her once or twice a year. If she were to die, I wouldn't feel much personal loss. But I worry about my parents. They are both retired, and although they both do theatre and have other active hobbies, Po is a huge focus of their lives. I don't know how they will handle it when she is gone. Would they get another dog? If so, how soon? I'm not worried about the dog as much as I am about my parents.

My parents are going to die. Not for a long while, I hope, but they will. They are getting to ages where that begins to show. My dad's recent heart and eye surgery, my mom's back problems: these are reminders that they won't always be around. How will I react? I don't know.

My grandparents are still alive (3 of them). We saw my mom's side this week. He is 90. She is 88. Oddly enough I don't think of their mortality as much as that of my parents or even the dog. My grandparents have always been old, at least for as long as I've known them. The changes in them seem less significant than those in my parents or the dog. They still live on their own in the house I remember from when I was a kid. They still have martinis everyday at 5 o'clock. But I can't ignore the fact that they are slowing down. I realize that although they may live to see me give them a great grandchild they won't live long enough for that child to really know them.

But the first to go will likely be my parent's dog. I looked her in the eye on Christmas and told her to hold on for them. But she can only hold on for so long. My parents' dog is going to die. It will very sad.

Sympathy Ham

A friend's mom passed away this morning. So I sent him a ham. I almost didn't because I thought that sending a ham when someone's mother has died is ridiculous. But I decided that I should do it because it is ridiculous. I hope he sees it that way.

I am most comfortable expressing my feelings with food. Even words are not my friends when it comes to sincere emotion. I work better in fiction, which may be based on reality but is not as raw or scary to me. So I show people I care about them by feeding them. I always have. If I cook for you, I definitely care. If I were in Pittsburgh right now, I would cook up a batch of something and bring it to my friend's house. Being so far away is frustrating. I feel like I can't do anything. A sympathy card and a bunch of flowers don't feel like enough. So I sent him a large ham.

It's a large ham. My intent is not for him to eat it all himself. I even stated this outright in my note to him. Please don't eat the entire large ham yourself. My intent is for him to use the ham as an excuse to be around people who care for him. He should invite them over to partake of this large ham that Kim Z sent him because she is ridiculous. If he doesn't feel like hosting he should drag his large ham to one of our friends' houses and make them eat it with him. I wish I could be there to share the ham.

Every year this friend throws a New Year's party. Everyone has to bring a bottle of champagne (or whatever sparkling swill is on sale). At midnight we toast people who have died during the year. You can get lists from the Internet. People also interject losses from their own life. I don't know if he will still have a party this year, or if someone will have a similar party in its place. If they do, I'm sure there will be a lot of champagne and a lot of tears and not for Ike Turner or Evel Knievel or Anna Nicole Smith. They don't even get hams.

Covered

A third monologue for Womenscene, an evening of original works about women (Pittsburgh, May 2008):
REVISED: December 18th, 2007

A man addresses the audience.

You’ve seen those women in the Middle East. The ones in their chadors and hijabs and burkas? American women hate that. They say it's oppressive. Sure. If I were a woman I wouldn't want to have to be all covered up all the time. Particularly if I lived in a desert. But I understand why the men make them do that. I'm not saying it's right, but I definitely understand.

See, women are distracting to men. Some men may not admit it, but I’m definitely not the only one. Watching you walk or, hell, just stand there can make it difficult to focus. Yes, I mean sex. Of course, that’s what I think about. Or maybe I just think about seeing you naked. I don’t know. It depends on my mood, and the situation, and the woman.

Go ahead. Call me a pig. Slap me across the face. Right here. Go on. You wouldn't be the first. I'm just trying to be honest here. I can’t help how my mind works. I do feel bad about it. At least sometimes. Particularly when I find myself thinking dirty thoughts about someone I shouldn't. Like women I work with. I try to treat them with respect, I really do. They deserve respect. These are intelligent and accomplished, independent women…and that, actually, makes it worse. To look at their curves under a close fitting skirt and silky blouse and know that the woman is smart too, probably smarter than me? I'm sorry, but that's hot. She’s up there talking about our client’s market penetration, and I’m thinking penetration, alright. Yes. I’m a bad man.

But I’m no pervert. I definitely don't get off on young girls or anything. That’s sick. In fact, the prospect of anyone more than 10 years younger makes me feel sort of dirty. Still, have you seen what these girls wear now? Preteens wear skirts the size of belts. Teenagers slather on make-up trying to look grown up and largely succeed. I look at them, okay. I try not to, but I look. I feel bad about it, but I look and involuntarily, thoughts come into my mind. Bad thoughts. I can’t help it. It's not fair to think that’s all my fault.

So when I see these places on the news with their faceless, shapeless, shrouded women, I think how much easier it would be to concentrate without being able to really see the women around me. How much easier it would be to avoid these guilty thoughts. But I also wonder how little it might take to distract me then. Would a glimpse of ankle do to me then what a glimpse of g-string does now? Would an errant lock of hair trigger a fantasy? I'm pretty sure my lust would adapt. Covering up probably won't keep my thoughts pure. My imagination is too good for that.

So, go ahead, ladies. Keep wearing those short skirts. Those tight tops. But when you catch me staring, and you will, know that what may seem like a creepy leer is truly meant as the utmost compliment. Honest.

In the year 2012

A man was preaching on the train a few weeks ago and I've been meaning to post the gist of his oration:

In the year 2012, we will be saved. We will dance with the wolves. The wolves will come down and they will be hungry. The buildings will tumble like washer-dryers. You will be taken to heaven. We will all be dancing with the stars. In the year 2012, it will end. We will be dancing with the stars who look like wolves. The wolves are hungry. Do not be left behind...

Tonight, a different man on the train was offering us all cheesecake and Gatorade. Everyone offers salvation in his own way.

Submission

I begin again. Last night I made two submissions to a local festival. One piece was newly written; the other was an edit of an older work that has never been produced. The holiday season is harrowing, but I feel that I am on the path again. I am writing again. I am submitting again. Hopefully that combination will result in me being produced again. I need to continue the trend of getting more productions each year. (2007 had 1 full-length production and 3 one-act productions, plus 2 public readings.) Plays are not meant to sit in a box or on a computer. Being a "semi-finalist" is reassuring, but they call having a play produced having it "done" because it can't be finished until it is put on stage.

I also need to be produced in more places. For not living in Pittsburgh for two and a half years, my playwriting career remains quite Pittsburgh-centric. Not that Pittsburgh is bad. It has been and continues to be very good for me. I just feel that I need to break out more. It would be nice to be produced in the city where I live. To do that, I need to submit plays to local theatres. I began that last night.

Do I think I have a chance with what I submitted? I never know. But at least I am trying. I wrote something. I sent it out. The rest is out of my hands.

I am a bear

Bears hibernate in the winter. There is a bit of that in me, too. I find it difficult to motivate in the winter. The cold and the whiteness of the snow make me want to snuggle under a blanket, only getting up to make a new mug of tea. I do not want to *do things.* I don't want to go out. I don't want to do things around the house. I just don't want to.

When I mentioned that I hadn't written much since moving to Chicago a friend told me "you'll write a lot in the winter." His point was that I wouldn't be going out as much, so I would stay at home and write. The problem is that I don't want to write when I am home either. Or clean. The house is in the worse shape it has been since before we unpacked. My to do list is growing not shrinking.

I need to find a way to work this out. I need to finally do the work that my laptop needs, so that I can use it while sitting on the chaise under the blanket. Or, I can bundle in comfy layers as I sit at my desk. Something. I need to survive this winter with something to show for it. Otherwise I may as well hibernate. I could use the sleep.

The Challenge of Being Pampered

I have back problems. This is largely my own fault. I sit at a computer all day, rarely using good posture. I don't exercise enough. I scrunch my shoulders up when I get cold. Once, after a particularly bad back spasm (resulting in PT and drug therapy for weeks) I began to use the chair massage service where I worked. I hadn't used it before then even though it was always available. Once I started going, I booked at 20-minute service every other week. It really helped to keep my back in check.

A few months ago, a no-frills massage and yoga place opened near my work. In fact, it is located between my job and the train. I walk by it everyday. When you get a membership there the price includes a one-hour service each month, plus discounts on additional services. I joined because it is affordable, and I figured it would compel me to get regular massages. The money is automatically charged each month.

Luckily, they let you bank up to four services because I am behind (by at least 2...could it be 3 now?). Why? It's because I don't feel I have time, or it seems like too much of a bother. To much of a bother to get a massage? Not enough time to get home an hour late once a month?

Besides helping my back (which is otherwise cronically sore with spikes of extreme pain), during a massage is the only time I can really relax my mind as well as my body. Normally I'm a manic multi-tasker, particularly at this time of year. My current to do list includes: cook for my Christmas party, cook for a holiday dinner party, decorate the house, wrap Christmas presents, fill out and send Christmas cards, complete several play submissions, and plan my honeymoon. I flit back and forth between these as well as more mundain items like paying bills and cleaning the house. While doing one I'm thinking of another. While doing "nothing" (riding the train, eating dinner, taking a shower), I think about what I am about to do. Only when I am in a little room, naked under a sheet, being kneaded for an hour do those thoughts calm. (I won't say they completely go away, but it's surprisingly close.)

A massage is time that both my mind and my body need. So why do I procrastinate getting them, particularly when they are already paid for? Yesterday, I booked a massage for tonight. Even then, I almost didn't. I was too lazy to get a massage?! But I'm going today. It will be extra cold when I get out of there, but really only a few degrees colder than if I go home on time.

I feel like it's wasteful not to do this. So many people do not have the means to get a massage. So many people have never had one. (I didn't until I was 29.) So who am I to whine about having to schedule one? And I feel this is a much more worthwhile way to spend my money than shopping. I definitely don't need stuff. I don't need it, and stuff just becomes clutter which becomes stress. This is a way to spend some dicretionary income on something that truly benefits my health and well-being. I need to go. And I need to enjoy it.

I promise to give a Christmas present to myself of trying to catch up on some of my massage credits this month. I deserve it, whether or not I choose to admit that at times.

Daring to Have a Merry Christmas

I guess I'm a rebel, but I like Christmas. It seems to be popular right now to bash Christmas. Sure, it's overly commercial, and it doesn't really tie to the Christian meaning (which is fine with me). However, it does bring people together. It encourages giving. It encourages treating oneself, one's family, and one's friend. It warms our hearts when it's cold outside. At least if we permit it.

Is it sad that we need a season for an excuse? A little. And I do try to be generous and welcoming to the people I care about all year long. What Christmas provides is a whole season when we can all focus on these things. Sure you may throw a party in the summer, but some people may have to work or have other plans. You may buy a gift for someone in the fall, but they may feel uncomfortable receiving a gift for "no reason" other than "I saw this and I thought of you." During the month of December everything slows down for celebrations and get togethers and choosing just the right gift.

Can it be stressful. Of course! It's important to keep things under control. I have thrown a Christmas party every year except one (after a move) since 1993. As it grew bigger it became stressful. I didn't do anything else in December but prepare for my party. It has become a tradition for many of my friends. So I was under a lot of pressure to keep it going. It lost the joy it once had. So I scaled it down. I still made special treats from scratch, but I'd supplement with some store bought appetizers and snack trays. Everyone still enjoys getting together, and I get to enjoy it, too!

I realize that other people celebrate other holidays this time of year. I respect that, but I still give Christmas presents. I don't feel like I'm forcing my beliefs on them (particularly the religious side of the holiday is not a part of my beliefs). I just want to share my traditions with them, and show them I care about them. My family always celebrated the season with a lot of love. That's what I like about it.

If that makes me a rebel, so be it. At least I'm a merry rebel.

Unbred Mother

A second monologue for Womenscene, an evening of original works about women (Pittsburgh, May 2008):

A woman in her mid-30s addresses the audience.

I never wanted children. I don't even like children. I never know what I'm supposed to do with them. How to talk to them. How to play with them. And they can smell fear, you know. Like dogs these babies, toddlers, preteens, whatever. They know when you are uncomfortable and it just makes them want to get the hell out of there, too. Don't ask me to baby-sit unless you want your kid to cry for 3 hours. Kids just don't like me. But I'm fine with that.

I never wanted children. A lot of my ex-boyfriends were good with kids, but, then again, most of my ex-boyfriends were essentially just big kids so it came easy to them. They could play with each others' toys. Some guys told me I was fighting my instincts or that it would kick in later. Nope. I've never felt the pressures of a ticking clock other than the one that keeps me at work too long and doesn't let me sleep in enough.

My girlfriends tend to have similar theories as the guys or else they think I'm worried about losing my figure or that I'm afraid of the pain. Sure I don't want to lose my figure. It's far from perfect as it is, so no, I would not like to gain additional weight or get stretch marks. Who would? And pain? Of course I'm afraid of pain. Pain is unpleasant. That's what pain is. But I know pain is temporary. And I think of myself as a tough cookie. It's not like I don't know a little something about pain. No. If I wanted to have a baby, I wouldn't let the pain stop me. But I never wanted children. Period.

Some people say I'm selfish. I tell them that they're selfish for bringing children into this fucked up world just to fulfill their own sick desire to breed! Actually, my world view is nowhere near as pessimistic as that--even now--but it tends to make people shut up...or start recycling shopping bags in a futile effort to save the world for their offspring.

I never wanted children. Hell, I don't even like children. So, why, when the doctors tell me that after this surgery...after this damn cancer...that I won't ever be able to have any...Why...why do I feel so empty?

Retro Hottie

A monologue for Womenscene, an evening of original works about women (Pittsburgh, May 2008):

A woman (mid 40s) addresses the audience. She is professionally dressed
and attractive if a bit plain.

I can’t believe I’m in this position. Me! This shit is supposed to happen to Miss America or pop singers. Minor celebrities. This shit is not supposed to happen to someone like me. I mean, I’m an accountant for Christ sakes.

Okay. Technically, I am an accountant who posed nude. I confess that. But it was a long time ago. A really long time ago. No one was supposed to know. Hell, my husband didn’t even know. I figured that was how it would stay. Look at me. I’m nobody. There was no reason for those pictures to “surface.” Thank you, Internet!

All I can figure is that some guy found the pictures—those stupid amateur pictures—in a box in his dad’s attic or a flea market or something. Ebay? I don’t know. Or maybe it was the photographer. Josh? Or was it Joe? He said they were for his portfolio, whatever that meant. He’d be in fifties now. Probably married.

I guess I should be flattered whoever did it felt a few old photos of me baring it all were worth scanning and posting on a web site. Retro Hotties dot com. Apparently, I’m a “retro hottie.” Who’d have thunk it?

Normally, pictures are dated by the clothes people are wearing. Since I’m not really wearing much—shoes, earrings—that wasn’t the problem. In this case, the retro aspect is provided by the slight discoloration of the photographs, and, of course, my hair. That hair. Teased and sprayed and up to here. I seem to recall spending an hour on just my hair—not to mention how long it took to apply all that make-up, ugh. Nowadays, I’m out the door in 45 minutes. I rarely even blow dry. But that hair is what clearly distinguishes those pictures as old. Retro. I guess the wallpaper helps too. The whole aesthetic just makes me want to laugh.

But apparently, guys still, you know, get turned on by me. Well, the old me. I mean, the young me. I did research, and the site has a small cult following. Who knows who’s looking at those pictures? Kids? Christ, I’m probably older than some of their mothers. What’s wrong with me? I’m losing my mind. I never expected this. I never even thought of those pictures anymore. I’d practically forgotten them. I guess nothing is ever forgotten on the Internet.

At work, it started as whispers. The big rumor. I didn’t know what was going on. I could tell the guys at work were talking about me, but I had no idea why. The first day I was worried about the usual stuff. Is my skirt tucked into my nylons? Is there something in my teeth? What? But it went on. I’d have said something. Asked about someone, but I’m not the type. I just lowered my eyes, got my coffee, and went back to my desk.

Then, it was the CFO's picnic, of all places. Everybody was getting pretty drunk on company-sponsored beer. The guys were laughing. I guess while I was in line for the bathroom, Jeff walked up to Ron and asked him how it felt to be married to a “retro hottie.” Ron, of course, had no idea what he was talking about. So Jeff explained. In detail. One of the guys had seen these pictures and recognized me. Or thought he recognized me. He sent the link around to get other opinions on the matter. As a group they still weren’t sure if it really was me. Jeff, at the behest of the others, was looking to Ron for confirmation.

Sometimes I wish I wasn’t married to such a civil gentleman. At the picnic, I really wish Ron would’ve punched Jeff in mouth. Bam. Instead, he shrugged it off. He said he was sure it wasn’t me. Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous. Her? Jeff nodded but wasn’t convinced or didn’t want to be.

But when we got home and Ron told me about the weird conversation from the picnic, the look on my face couldn’t hide the truth. Ron asked me why I did it. Why do you think I did it? I was young, and I needed the money. Seriously. I was, and I did. How much money? Oh, that’s the best part. For 10 pictures that would come back and haunt me 25 year later? I got 50 bucks. That’s it. I used it to buy pot, and—I think—a handbag. I was an idiot. A young, hard-bodied, idiot.

At first Ron seemed mad. Then he smiled. “Come on, retro hottie, let’s see the real you.” I followed him to the computer nearly afraid of what I’d find.

We found the site quickly. What we didn’t find quickly were my pictures. There I was with my husband scanning through hundreds of pictures of naked and semi-clad women from the 60s, 70s, 80s. They weren’t well organized. You’d think they’d at least sort them by decade. But, no, you just have to browse. It was awkward. Ron and I aren’t really the type to look at naked pictures together. Or apart. Or at least I don’t. I’d glance at the screen and say “no, no, that’s not it,” and then glance away until Ron navigated to a new page. Until…

“Wait.” I spotted a familiar shoe. A bright red shoe. An impulse buy that I rarely wore, but I was still able to recognize it before I even recognized myself. My legs, my breasts, my face, that hair. “Is that you?” Ron asked. I said, “I think so,” even though I was much surer than that.

We went through each of my pictures. At least those were grouped together. First we laughed and joked. He asked me why I don’t wear that “outfit” anymore. I asked him where his secret, naked photos are posted. Soon we were laughing and kissing and…well, turned on. Apparently, Ron likes his retro hottie. Really likes his retro hottie. Let’s leave it at that.

I thinking I was still glowing Monday morning at work. The talk by the coffee machine stopped as I approached, the same way it had for the last couple of weeks. Jeff was there. I looked him straight in the eye and said, “I hear you’ve been looking at some of my old pictures.” I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone so red. As red as those shoes. I got my coffee and walked away.

Words from the bubble

I've lived a pretty sheltered life. Not boring, but really safe. Not that I'm wishing tragedy upon myself. But it seems like somehow I've missed out on a whole culture that my peers all understand so much better than myself. Two topics tend to come up that everyone else seems to know much more about: drugs and crime. Not that I hang around with a bunch of druggies and criminals, but everyone at least has a friend who did this or that. Now, most of the stories are pretty bad. I don't wish tragedy on my friends or acquaintances either. But there are whole categories of culture and slang that I know nothing about. It tends to limit my writing to "safe" middle class type scenarios. Maybe that's not bad, but it's certainly less marketable. I worry about when I will run out of examples of the romantic neurosis of the educated middle class. Is that enough to keep me writing? Even if it is, is it anything that anyone would want to produce?

I wish I wrote meaningful issue plays full of diversity and message, but that's not what comes out of me. I don't believe I should manufacture it. I don't believe that will work. But does that limit my audience. Perhaps. But at least they are my audience. Probably a bunch of over-educated middle class people.

Caught in the Web

Initially, the "web" part of world wide web referred to how things interrelated. These weren't linear or hierarchical relationships. This was a web that connected in different ways and reconnected in on itself. But now I think of the "interweb" in correlation to another spider web attribute. Stickiness. I, the humble prey, see something of interest. I move in closer. I'm stuck a little at that point. I'm stuck staring at my browser. Then I see something else. A referenced link? Or maybe I need to learn more. I go to Google or Wikipedia. But each move gets me more attached to the web. Like a struggling fly.

But who or what is the spider? Procrastination? Laziness? Distraction? I am so caught in it's web that I can't recognize it. It envelopes me until I can't move. Until a quick check of the email has turned in to hours of counterproductivity. Until the life blood has been sucked out of me. Until the spider devours me.

Yawning Spirituality

I believe more in the mysteries of the mind than what others ponder as the mysteries of the universe. I believe the former is, in fact, the source of the later.

People say they believe in ghosts because they have seen them or felt them. A dead relative speaks to someone in a dream; therefore, there is life after death. I don't doubt that these people saw or felt or dreamt what they say they did. I just interpret the meaning differently.

The memories of people exist in our brains. Remember that, we often dream about people who are n0t dead. We sometimes think I see things that aren't there. We sometimes get inexplicable feelings of comfort or unease. I don't believe that these are evidence of any knowing entity trying to communicate with us. But I also don't believe these are baseless hallucinations.

I do believe that our energies are connected. Changes in this energy trigger the brain to react in some way. That may be a unique experience to an individual. Or when multiple people have a shared experience they are responding to either the same stimuli or to a trickle down effect of each other stimuli. Seeing ghosts with the contagiousness of yawning.

Some people say a person "will live on in our memories." I believe in that in a much more tangible way. But I don't believe the dead are out there watching us. I just believe that we keep watching them.

This is the spirituality in which I have faith. That I am ruled by my mind, so I must worship it. I must give it time to rest and time thrive. I must nurture it and care for it. I must create a healthy temple in which it can dwell.

I believe if I lose my mind I have lost my soul. At that point I will be no better than a zombie or a dead girl.

Progress

I have more inspiration than I have time and motivation. This isn't just with the writing. I have a huge to do list. Although, with John's help, we got parts of it pared down today, I keep taking on projects that add more to it. I'm excited about things like baking cookies for A&J's Halloween party and giving a speech for the next women's group event at work. Still, it is this sort of volunteerism that keeps the list growing. Maybe that's not such a bad thing. There had been a week or so when I was feeling really overwhelmed. Really down. But now I feel a bit more in control. I feel a bit more like at least the important things are getting done by their deadlines. I may be able to keep up after all.

Better than nothing

I worked out but only just a little. Now, I will write but only just a little. But it's better than nothing, right?

The day job gets in the way. I come home with my eyes and brain tired. It's too easy to sink into the chaise and dissolve into television. The fluffier the show, the better.

I jotted down some new ideas today. I guess that's the start of returning to the writing habit. When I find more than a few minutes to work I can start developing them.

People talk of writer's block, when they can't think of what to write. I rarely have that problem. I tend to have more ideas than I can ever truly explore. And so many of my plays are not complete, even after premiere performances. I see that there are significant weaknesses and that the scripts should be revised, but it is so much more interesting to move onto the next idea. The new idea. There is always something. Maybe it's just an image or a line, but there is an idea. I feel that I am wasting them. But I am so tired and I don't know how to get more energy.

Some days I even do the right things. I don't OD on caffeine. I eat reasonably well. I get 8+ hours of sleep. Lately, however, that isn't enough to keep me from feeling that I am in a constant fog. I worry about it. I ordered some B-complex vitamins. That's supposed to help. I'm assuming it can't hurt. I've been taking vitamins, which I would think should help, but it hasn't seemed to make a difference. Actually, I think this fog fell after I started taking the vitamins. Could vitamins be bad for me? I don't think so. It must be something else. Whatever it is, I want to get past it and resume my life.

What is important

For the first time since the move I did some writing. Just a little but it is a start. As I was going to bed I got an idea for a monologue. Instead of going to sleep and figuring I'd write it later, which has been my usual pattern of laziness, I grabbed a notebook and wrote. It was only about 10-15 minutes, but it was an intense burst of writing.

I need to get back to writing and exercising regularly. I am not a religious person, so my body and my mind equal my soul. I only near nirvana when both are well tended. I feel better. I feel fulfilled.

I have been procrastinating everything of late: bill-paying, laundry, cleaning, tasks at work. I believe that if I can make time to write and to exercise I will regain the motivation to keep all aspects of my life in order. This is important. This is the key.

Wasted Time

I feel like there is not enough time. What is more true is that I just don't use it properly. I get sucked into a tv or web surfing too easily. I tweak lists rather than completing the tasks. I create spontaneous little projects that distract from things I've been planning to do. I spend more time thinking about what I need to do than actually doing it. Has it always been this way? I thought I had beat this, at least a little.

I need to find what is important, and I need to do it. I need to find the drive to do things because it gives me pride to have done them. I need to regain focus. I am not living up to my potential artistically, professionally, or domestically. I can do better. I should do better. Otherwise I am just wasting away.

Slacking

I already skipped a day. I thought about writing yesterday, but that doesn't count, does it?

Writing for me is like exercise. I never want to do it. I postpone doing it. Then, once I do it, I feel so good that I don't want to stop. But I have to stop. At least for now. I have work to be doing.

A New Beginning

I need to return to the habit of writing. It's scary how easy it was to let the habit fall away. It has been months. Friends say it's justified; I am busy with so many other things. Still, I feel that even if I don't have the time to dedicate to a big project I should put together words in something other than emails or policy documents (i.e. the day job). I will return to the world of thoughts become text. And I will do it here.